


Tales Of A Stradivarius

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, NSFW, Post Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty likes to be as changeable in bed as he is at work - so, naturally, he takes to both Sherlock AND John. Their complicated relationships, as followed by a violin.. (Ch 1&2 Sheriarty/Jimlock, 3 Johniarty)</p><p>Chapter 1 - Holmes & Moriarty have been having an affair but have never done anything so nonsensically romantic as gift-giving, until now.<br/>Ch 2 - Some fluffy and not-so-fluffy reflections from Sherlock and Jim, respectively, caused by his instrument and John's arrival home..<br/>Ch 3 - Hot breath, musky and moist, brushes over John's nape, “You know I broke it for you.”<br/>Warning: Graphic descriptions of Johniarty intercourse, aka NSFW content, in Chapter Three. (Was a series, now one story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stradivarius

**Author's Note:**

> WAS a series.. now one story.. Flows better that way, even if there are multiple pairings at play. 
> 
> Dedicated to my beta, Snap, without whom I would not be a single percentage point of the writer I am today.
> 
> Warning: Graphic descriptions of intercourse, aka NSFW content.  
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

Sherlock stands by the window of Jim Moriarty's flat, his blue-gray eyes resting on the foggy haze around the street lamp below. Another rainy evening in London. At roughly two in the morning both geniuses are awake and have turned to each other for duel comfort and understanding, per usual.

The detective stoops low for a moment to pick up a magnificent piece of craftsmanship – A Rembrandt in musical form; A Stradivarius violin. The golden violin reigning about all others in its field.

What Sherlock Holmes held in those spindly fingers was one of the few surviving originals by such a genius that the two men would not have minded sharing their time with Antonio Stradivari. Certainly to appreciate finesse and to have such skill meant the man was in his own right a proper genius, too.

Jim had set the Stradivarius in a velvet cushioned box, all wrapped up in a bow – a truly luxuriant gift. They did not need lots of soppy romantic nothing-gestures. Just a single large one. Flowers that passed with the rise of a few moons? No, Jim gave him something that would last for centuries.  
  
Sherlock had been more than impressed when it had been gifted to him. The giddy looking criminal had never given him anything before his new, beloved violin.

It's gleaming outside shine had been thoroughly examined by the detective's eyes. They rested upon the Latin inscription for a time, but the fine quality was what truly made it worth staring at. Sherlock had fingered the bold outline in the most tantalizing manner. Only when the villain rocked on his heels, clearly unwilling to sit still any longer, did Jim finally say, “It's called Solomon Ex-Lambert.”

Sherlock had taken to Solomon immediately.

So had Jim. In fact, Jim's delight had led to the instrument becoming a secret only for the two of them. At the flat Sherlock vowed to only play his old violin, even though he knew that the melodic turns would not now be as stirring as his Stradivarius'.  
  
Moriarty gives a holler from within the bedroom and the lanky limbed detective lifts the gorgeous instrument up. He uses both hands, not risking its precious neck. Sherlock carries the Stradivarius with more attentiveness than a newborn babe.

Sherlock climbs into bed and lay down sideways across it while the slighter man lies normally. The taller man rests his back against Jim's lower chest as the man rolls sideways to curl around his statuesque body. Only when he climbs into bed with Jim does he press the fine horsehair of the bow against the taut strings.  
  
One hand lazily leaning against Jim's chin, elbow propping him up to watch and hear Sherlock play. The trembling beauty filling the room costs just under two million pounds – nothing at all as far as Moriarty is concerned. The sight of his pallid skinned lover-by-night working elegant long spider's fingers to make the instrument sing is a concert worth far more.

As the ballad – something Jim has not heard before and suspects to be a composition of Sherlock's own - takes a mournful turn the Stradivarius seems to mimic its soft cries along the detective's skilled touch. The genius can bring a vibrant tune without any vigor. Sherlock bleeds the music from himself like a tenuous connection flows between him and Solomon.

The audio-visual delights in combination prove too much for Jim, who leans forward and nips lightly at the other man's bare side. Sherlock's play down not falter, so his nemesis takes it as free reign to begin light kisses. Slowly, Moriarty works his hand along the taut stomach, watching the barest hint of defining muscle undulate with Sherlock's few playing movements.

Suddenly Jim feels something slide between his bare cheeks – soft yet the slightest hint of coarseness. Nearly erotic yet not quite. After it moves, he recognizes it as the horsehair of Sherlock's bow. “Jim..” Threatens the detective, who has finally had enough of the doting physical affection.

Jim's smirk spreads, crafting smile lines in his heart-shaped face. No, two million quid was an absolute pittance – he would have paid ten times as much. Minimum.


	2. The Hidden Stradivarius

Sherlock has just come from a rendezvous with Jim, his disguised violin case in hand. He finds that the incidents sit better in his mind when he changes what he takes the violin out in, though he doubts anyone else is as attentive to others as he.  
  
The instrument gleaming as if crafted by the hands of an angel rests in a velvet lined case. Sherlock stares upon it before reaching for the slender neck and carefully setting the end of it under his chin. The man tilts his head down to brush his cheek against the polished-smooth wood, lifting the bow slowly and dragging a wonderful trill from it. So beautiful is the sound that Sherlock cannot stop. Like Bach has stepped into his body, suddenly he is possessed to finish the tune.

It is not unusual for John to come home without Sherlock realizing he had ever left, or for John to arrive without Sherlock noticing him until much later on. This time, John is not noticed when he arrives home, but instead of the usual silence or sounds of fizzling chemicals what greets him is a dulcet engulfing tone. It falls upon him from the moment he walks through the door and wraps around him in sweet comfort as John takes the stairs. Much more pleasant than Sherlock's sorrowful tunes, yet every bit the skill and emotion – perhaps more.

Yes, more, John decides. He steps inside, and the ariose tune's increased volume brings a smile to John's face. Sherlock's back is to him, but as John moves to set his grocery bag down he says, “That's beautiful Sherlock, is it yours?”

Sherlock stiffens for a moment as John's presence makes itself known via his voice. He is certain that the doctor could not have seen his instrument – not from that angle. There was also a 21% chance that John might recognizes it is of too fine a quality to be within their price range. Though Sherlock does not think John knows much about the fine art world he will not risk it.

Also, much as he would be loathe to admit, Jim had expressly forbidden him to play it for anyone else and Sherlock... liked that. He hated himself for liking it, but the emotion still resided within him. There was a special sensuality about their private little gift. He and Jim's secret.  
  
Without stopping Sherlock steps away from the window. He lets up on the pulchritudinous noise and lays his treasure back in its soft home. The Strad is put away and out of sight. Sherlock's less fine yet affectionately weather-worn violin is taken up to finish the tune.

John notices from the kitchen that the song loses some of its luster after Sherlock was quiet for a moment. The ending is lovely, true enough, but not that soul-stirring ballad that drove John's emotions earlier. John hopes it is not on account of his presence that the temperamental artist lost his mojo.

Far away, behind a computer screen, sits a dour face. The frown is surrounded by a light sprinkle of facial hair, most of it dominating the area around the man's mouth. His lips curl unhappily at the video footage playing in front of him.

John walks into 221b and from the window it was clear the man kept playing just long enough. Bastard. John has heard it. Some things are only meant for one person. Some things are sacrosanct without religious attachment.

For his trespass something must give and the decision is made – the Stradivarius will pay. So Jim makes plans for Solomon to be no more. After all, John can never hear it again, and this is such a kind solution.. Well, kind compared to stopping John from ever hearing anything else again.


	3. The Stradivarius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time gap between chapter two and three.

 The package before John is pale lavender, a light gloss to the shiny paper, with an ebony ribbon all tied in a pompous looking bow... John was not expecting anything. Especially not while he is lying naked in bed with James Moriarty. He is relaxing on his back, a tad sore from Jim's last especially rough penetration, but not minding. Pertinent to his request, Jim has remained subdued, merely lying over John's stomach complacently. Neither moves until Jim pulled the box from the side of the bed like some demonic magician.

"What's this?" John's brow arches slightly, curious but not without hope. It does not make sense to him - why would Jim Moriarty give him a gift, even if they were shagging in a near-scheduled synchronicity? Slowly his thick fingers unwrapped the gaudy bow and peeled off the lid. Inside was brilliantly shined shards of wood, For a split second the sight of curling strands of long ivory hair, in a box from a serial-killing madman, terrified John until he was struck with the realization it was not human. The half broken neck of the string instrument made it clear what it had been, illuminating John's mind in one way only to further perplex him in another. "You got me a broken violin?" He lifts his beady browns to give Moriarty an incredulous open-mouthed stare.

Jim glanced down at the splinters of some wondrous thing. "It's Sherlock's Stradivarius - Solomon." He declares with a petulant indignation.

"Sherlock has - had - a what?"

"A very rare exquisite tool used only by masters of the art." Jim can sound so posh when he wants to, and his smug voice says he knows it.

John just thinks he is a mad, attractive, little pillock. Moriarty's got his mad moments, but in these softer ones they roll right off John's shoulder. "So, a high quality violin?"

"How crass, John." Jim's soft Irish-trilled accent scoffs openly at him in mocking flirtation. John always hates these moments - Sherlock could be smart and stupidly insensitive in the same breath, but he never tried to make John feel less than. Jim seemed to take pride in unhinging John, just to close the trap back around his body tighter the next time.

"Why would you have Sherlock's violin?" John pushes on as if unabated, ignoring the rumbling emotions in his belly and the ones further down from Jim's bare body moving up the bed.

"Don't let's be obvious." Jim chuckles in his throat. "I gave it to him,” There is a pointed leer in that voice and a second later it turns downright sinister, “Then I took it back." The villain made a disenchanted tutting sound. "I broke it off with him, Johnny boy." Now he's curled against John, so when the man tenses at the news Jim can feel it - He smirks deviantly. John is so ordinary but he just adores that about the light haired doctor - one cannot eat caviar for every meal after all.

John feels like a pen knife has been jabbed right in his gut and twisted, twice. Jim Moriarty – a psychologist could pen an entire textbook on this lunatic – has been sleeping with him AND Sherlock? The realization grinds John's mind to a screeching halt on everything else. Strangely, though his body feels shocked, his mind knows he ought not be. Of course Jim would have been romantically chasing BOTH of them.. Why had he not seen it sooner?

Swallowing the thickening lump just behind his Adam's apple, John rolls over to dislodge Jim from him. The box is hurled off the side of the bed in a volcanic display for the militant doctor. His stare has bronzed, but retreats closed as Jim is faced with his back, marred from war and slightly pudgy in places, but no less enticing.

“I didn't think you could be jealous, Doctor Watson,” That higher pitched playful tease makes John cringe more than Jim reaching out and tracing a rippled muscle in his back, both feeling the tawny skin tense.  
  
“I'm just going to bed.” Voice smaller than it ought be, as if Moriarty has finally thwarted him. John wanted to sound less disillusioned, but those splinters and fibers mockingly danced across his mind while lying strewn on the ground.  
  
Hot breath, moist and musky, brushes over his nape, “You know I broke it for you.” John knows this is not true as soon as it is uttered – each twist of those lips is bittersweet. Jim may try, but he never plays by the same rules as John. That solid fact that has not changed since these trysts began.  
  
So when Jim begins to lavish hungry nips across his upper back neither man says anything more. The sickening thought in John's mind that slowed his will to fight was that if he could not be with Jim one more time he would never get this nutcase out of his head.

The villain works his way upward, leering over John who balks and thrusts forward into nothingness. For some reason John always goes mad when Jim bites his deltoid. There's already a blotchy hickey there but the madman seems intent on driving it to darker depths just like everything else in his life.  
  
John finally yields by reaching behind him, not breaking their spooning contentment, and grabbing hold of that lithe body. For his size, John had a wide palm, and Moriarty loves how firm his grip can be. When John wants to shove him around he lets himself become the doctor's rag-doll, but he always has to find some catalyst. Not that Jim minds, that's half the fun.

Jim throws a leg over John like a spider encompassing it's pray to begin wrapping it. His intent is less devious, of course, merely to get friction to his heated flesh, but Jim still smirks like a murderous insect.  
  
John reaches across the brief bit of bedspread separating him from the nightstand and clamps his digits around the half-finished lubricant tube. It gets tossed over his scarred shoulder to Jim whose eager fingers uncap it and slide against John's bare bottom. They stopped using condoms a while ago, John forgets exactly when, only focuses on those genius' fingers. So insubstantial to look at, only a slightly slender quality to them, with nails always well cared for, yet they worked magic once they slid inside John's rear. The sparse hair on Jim's face scratched pleasantly along John's scar while his second finger joined the first in penetrating, robbing the mild-mannered man of a moan.

The noises only become more guttural the longer his fingers tease and stretch. Soft and erotic sounds just like Jim prefers it when he is with John. The black haired villain lifts a hand to the plush cheek to slide it out of the way just enough to press the head of his shaft forward. John sucks in a breath like he always does, holding it, and when Jim slides inside he just sucks it in deeper. Feeling the light headed desire sending a tremble through John, Jim waits for a minute before he starts moving with a rough insistence.

John's hand falls down to the leg draped over him, gripping Jim just below the knee. It's not the most comfortable position but neither complains, neither moves save for pleasure. Jim's hips roll quicker, pushing fast within the tight man so that he can hear flesh slap.

Jim groans out his name, and as always, John feels relief and a touch of affection among the blazing passion. John works his inner walls to clamp hard on the man writhing against him.  


After already having plenty of attention laid on each other tonight they do not last long. Jim reaches around him with an unsteady hand. He fists John's shorter shaft, wrapping his slightly shaking fingers tightly and pumping them. When John thrusts forward he soils the bedspread with his orgasm and clenches like a vice. Jim's silky essence follows in tandem, half within John and half in a pearlescent splatter on John's cheeks.

* * *

His psychosomatic limp is back. Perhaps even the injuries in one's mind is affected by the rain, or so John tells himself. It drizzles down around him but does not cool the dull heat he still feels. Internally his is awash with emotion, a torrent would have been more apropos. At the first sign of a cabbie his arm rises slightly and he takes a lift back to Baker Street. John ignores the drops on the window, leaning his head back with closed eyes for the journey.

Each sloshing step up the stairs is like a new heavy weight as his nerves become frayed from the slight, blooming hope. When he turns the knob and sees the emptiness that hope dies its thousandth death.

Still empty. Sherlock has not yet felt fit to let John know he is alive.  
  
He cannot wait for Sherlock to come back. Suddenly John knows this and grabs his coat, ready to head out and comb London's streets. John does not know if he can ever get the mad Irish loon out of his head, but there is only one man with a chance of helping him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & Kudos keep me writing =D


End file.
